Fiston Mujila - Tram 83

THE DISADVANTAGE OF COURTING A BABY-CHICK WITHOUT KNOWING HOW HARMFUL SHE IS.

Ferdinand was quietly sipping his beer when a young woman sat down at his table without being invited. According to the Tram 83 gossip, all the women of the City-State made brutal use of gris-gris to nab their prey. Which is plausible. It was hard, virtually impossible not to give in to their spell.

“You’re selfish!”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Why?’

“You’re drinking all alone, even though the Tram is full, with no shortage of beautiful company.”

“I have no need of that,” brooded the publisher.

“So my presence bothers you?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

She raised her left hand. The busgirl with the fat lips came running.

“A glass of red wine!”

The diggers, the baby-chicks, and the students, as well as the poor tourists, always ordered wine whenever they chatted with the for-profit tourists. It’s classy, they would always say. The young woman whispered a few words. The publisher had a fit of giggles. And the conversation continued even livelier than before.

“You’re handsome.”

“Me?”

“You’re handsome like in a porn film.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, very handsome, like in a film where they practice sexual relations,” replied the young woman, evasively.

The publisher gave a long sigh.

“Am I lying? I just observe what I see.”

Smoke wreaths from cigarettes.

Hoarse voices from alcohol.

Stifled laughs from baby-chicks.

A blues riff, the diluted notes of a quartet in the chiaroscuro sky of the Tram. At each chorus, the soprano whined:

Coddle me without killing me

Stroke me without smothering me

Lick my body without wounding me

Oh, dearly beloved

Take me to Odessa

And strike up the symphony of love for me

“What do you live off?”

“I’m retired,” answered the publisher, all smiles.

“No, please, tell me how you spend your days.”

“I’m in mining.”

“What a fine profession!”

“And Madame?”

“Mademoiselle, if you please. Why seek to age me? What have you got to lose by calling me Mademoiselle?”

“And Mademoiselle?”

She stood up, stepped a quarter-way round the table and extended her hand to Malingeau. He stood up. They moved slowly to the dance floor.

The notes flew about like leaves in the wind.

The saxophone squealed beneath the soprano’s whining.

Coddle me without killing me

Stroke me without smothering me

Lick my body without wounding me

Oh, dearly beloved

Take me to Odessa

And strike up the symphony of love for me

“You’re handsome.”

“You already told me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m a little old for your age.”

“Age is a pretext.”

She rolled and slid her hand across the publisher’s silky-smooth pants. In one movement, she delved, grabbed Malingeau’s penis, and began to play with it. He held out for a few minutes, capitulated …

The soprano and her chorus.

Coddle me without killing me

Stroke me without smothering me

Lick my body without wounding me

Oh, dearly beloved

Take me to Odessa

“Shall we go?”

“Which neighborhood do you live in?”

“Saint Athanasius.”

“I knew it. The white neighborhood.”

It’s one of the oldest neighborhoods in the City-State. Originally, only whites were allowed to live there. Now, it’s the neighborhood where the dissident General and the for-profit tourists dwell. It lies between Vampiretown — built for the drivers, valets, and other Africans serving the colonial government — and the Red Zone, a large-scale shantytown or urban garbage dump, which violated every ideal of city planning, sleazy and filthy in the dark and dubious bargain of history. When a digger is lucky enough to find a diamond, his primary reflex is to change his place of residence. All the skeletons living in the Red Zone dream of dwelling in Saint Athanasius one day.

“Foreplay is like democracy, as far as I’m concerned. If you don’t caress me, I’ll call the Americans.”

Out front of the Tram, two baby-chicks fought over a seventy-year-old tourist. Malingeau and his prey made their way through the horde of gawkers, under the appalled gaze of several pimps jealous of the young woman’s overblown independence. They walked arm in arm to the car, pausing for some tongue-to-tongue and fiddling of flesh. Sated by this foreplay, the publisher started his limousine, left hand down the tigress’s burst blouse.

“You are like the sun, you are the only man for me.”

“I never hoped for such a beautiful meeting.”

“I am the queen of the night. Without me, the Tram is a thrift shop of broken dreams.”

“Your name?”

“Christelle, Chris to my friends.”

They reached their destination in a quarter of an hour.

Malingeau’s house, a royal palace.

She placed her delicate lips on Malingeau’s. With her fingers, she set to unbuttoning his shirt.

“We’ll be more comfortable in the bedroom. Come.”

“Make love to me here. The bedroom is too official for my taste.”

They tumbled onto the sofa.

“Give me the money first!”

Malingeau felt about for his pants lying on the floor, and pulled out some notes without checking.

“Here, my princess.”

“More.”

“You like money!”

“I like life.”

She practically snatched the cash from him,

“Here baby, let me bring you aboard.”

and raised her leg slightly.

Two quick rounds, then Christelle demanded a third, a fourth, a fifth round. Three hours of gymnastics, after which the publisher collapsed. She got dressed, Zairian style, took a little camera from her clutch, and snapped the dozing body: a dozen photos.

When Malingeau drew himself from his long sleep, the music was still droning in his head. Christelle was already gone. She had taken care to scribble a line on a scrap of paper.

“I drank your body until my thirst was worn.”

MALINGEAU, LUCIEN, AND REQUIEM, OR THE LOVE IMPOSSIBLE.

There are cities which don’t need literature: they are literature. They file past, chest thrust out, head on their shoulders. They are proud and full of confidence despite the garbage bags they cart around. The City-State, an example among so many others — she pulsated with literature.

“I love you, baby.”

“I don’t like foreplay. It kills the pleasure.”

“Do you have the time?”

The City-State was written by her gigolos, her baby-chicks, her diggers, her four-star whorehouses, her dissident rebels ready to imprison you, her prospectors, her semi-tourists. Lucien rushed into the night, his imitation-leather bag slung across his body. Tourist Street, Independence Street, International Armistice Street, Gravedigger Street, Mineral Street, Copper Street, First Revolution Street, Third Revolution Street, True and Sincere Revolution Street … Out front of the establishment, a pitched brawl between the diggers, the striking students, and the mercenaries over the sexual abuse of a student single-mama Tram habitué by a bunch of diggers. He got out his notebook, jotted down the extent to which railroads, minerals, and ill-contained desires lead to the putrefaction of bodies created in the image of the riches …

Same decor inside the Tram, give or take a few breasts. Nearly all the players on stage. A brass-band-drum-kit. The publisher, ever punctual to his meetings, was conversing with a single-mama-chick. Lucien sat down, ordered a drink. The publisher got rid of the young woman.